Butterfly
by nashie-chan
Summary: One-shot. Roger is gone, and Mimi never had the chance to say good-bye. But a familiar stranger may help her past her grief...if she can realize that he's not a dream...


**__**

Butterfly

By Samurai-Nashie

Disclaimer: Insert appropriate disclaimer here. 

oOo

It was the middle of October and it was raining.

Mimi couldn't remember when it had started raining. But she knew that it would never stop. The rain pelted against the glass windowsof the bus, blurring the outside world into shades of dark gray mixed with the neon green lights of the gas station just a block away, and the fuzzy colorful blurs of people running to get indoors. Thunder loomed just miles away, and lightning only sparked the sky occasionally.

Mimi was trying not to cry.

She had been at work (not at the Cat Scratch club, no, she could never go back there after she promised Roger…oh, _Roger_…) when her world had come screeching to a halt. Her shift was nearly over for the day when Lily, the redheaded, freckled cashier who was constantly fascinated with the tabloids, handed her the phone.

"_Someone's on the phone. For you. Name's Mark_." Lily did not deal in extended conversations not pertaining to gossip.

Mimi had thought nothing of it. Roger (…_oh my god Roger_…) sometimes asked Mark to call Mimi when he couldn't get to the phone or when he was one of his artistic funks. It had happened at least half a dozen times since she had started working at the street diner a few months back, and some of the workers were led to believe that she was dating two guys instead of one.

The bus continued its way down the streets, in that not-so-dense time immediately after rush hour and before the evening buzz, even though this was New York, and it always seemed to be busy. Mimi continued to look out the window, and continued praying, her fingers rubbing the tiny wooden cross around her neck (a gift to herself after that one December two years back…Roger always said it made her seem more mysterious…). She wasn't sure what she was praying for - a miracle, maybe. And who she was praying to? Angel. God. Anyone who would hear her.

Because it couldn't be true.

Mimi had thought it was a joke at first, when she picked up the phone. Mark hadn't initially responded to her cheerful teasing ("_Mark? Have you finally decided to elope with me_?") and Mimi thought that maybe he had hung up until…she heard him breathing…and then…

"_Mimi…it's Roger_…"

Mimi shut her eyes, pinching the cross so hard between her fingers, she felt the tiny edges prick her skin. The miniscule pain brought a small gasp to her lips, and she blinked back a fresh set of tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. No, she would not cry. Crying meant something bad had happened, and she couldn't…god, she couldn't bear…

She squeezed her eyes shut, and began to murmur quietly in her native tongue…

"…por favor…Roger…espera a que yo…please…please, Roger…"

At work, Lily had only frowned when Mimi's playful demeanor had quickly disappeared into frantic, sickened worry. Mimi hadn't cared then, and she didn't care now.

"_Mark, what happened_?"

"_He…he just went out, around the corner, I don't know - he said something about the store…he said he'd be right back. Oh, god…it wasn't even ten minutes…_"

Mimi bit her lip as the bus flew past streaks of golden-yellow - the stop lights. She hadn't told Mark…she suspected that he already knew, after all, he and Roger were best friends…but she knew…Roger was (she cursed at the tense _- Roger is…is…IS_) painfully awful at keeping secrets. Whenever he wanted to buy her anything, he would always leave the worst hints, but Mimi always smiled and played along and pretended to be completely shocked when he gave her the gift until Maureen would laughingly tell him that Mimi had known all along…

Mimi's head jerked up and she pulled down hard on the handle above - it was her stop. Rising to her feet, and bumping into a few fellow New Yorkers as she made her way down the slippery aisle, she didn't even waste breath on breathless apologies. She only hugged her purse tighter to her body - at least it wasn't like it was in the subway - and squirmed to the front of the bus, leaping off the platform and into the huge brown puddles of the street.

She hadn't bothered to secure her wild curls with a hair comb or a rubber band, and the onslaught of rain left tiny water droplets clinging desperately to her brown mane. Hugging her coat closer to her body, she ran towards the front entrance of the hospital, her heeled boots clunking furiously against the pavement as she passed parked cars, and the two ambulances that sat unoccupied near the automatic doors…

…had one of these taken Roger here?

"Please, please, please…" Mimi murmured, entering into the hospital lobby, not bothering to shake out her now damp curls or dry her feet. She hated hospitals. Ever since Angel…no, can't think of Angel, can't think of Angel because then she'd think of Roger in the same condition, but Roger wasn't…oh, god, _Roger_…

The receptionist at the desk politely yet firmly told her that she wouldn't be allowed to see him, and Mimi felt despair and anger flair up, and it was obviously evident on her face, because the receptionist quickly rectified her statement. "He's in the ER."

And then Mimi was gone, ignoring the call of surprise from behind her, and headed towards where she hoped he would be. She wasn't going to be told to wait - she had to be there. She had to be by him, to let him know that it was going to be okay, because in reassuring him, she would reassure herself as well. She just needed to see him…his dark green eyes, his quiet often shy smiles…she needed to hear his voice, that same throaty baritone that softly sang that song…her song…_their _song…

White halls were just as dreary as the evening rain, and she stopped just short of running into a doctor, who gave a murmur of surprise and lifted his hands to steady her, but Mimi was already moving…

…and then…

Mark.

Mimi halted in the hallway, staring. It was Mark. He was sitting on a chair - there were so many other people in the tiny waiting room, pacing or reading magazines or talking - and one arm was draped across his knees while he held his forehead in his right hand. His eyes were closed and he didn't…

"Mimi?"

Another voice. So familiar - of course he would be here. Tom Collins must have hated hospitals, though. After all, this was where Angel…no, can't think of Angel…

Mark looked up then, and Mimi saw his eyes, such a haunted pale-blue set in that boyish face. Collins had reached her by then, and was gently leading her over to the seats, and Mimi let herself be led as Collins seated her next to Mark. Then, the tall man murmured something about checking with the doctors, and after a glance at Mark, he had strode off.

Mimi stared blankly at her hands for a few moments until her fingers once against found the cross that was set stubbornly in the hollow of her throat. The waiting area was a frighteningly organized tribute to comfort, from the formerly thick blue carpet that sat underfoot, now trodden down from the continual pacing of worried friends and relatives. Magazines lay scattered over the two coffee tables, along with cups of coffee long since grown cold.

Silence reigned between the two friends. Mimi closed her eyes again. Oh, god, let him be okay…

"_Mark, what are you talking about…what happened_?"

"_Mimi, some guy…I don't know, he said it happened too fast…some guy tried to…god, Mimi. Roger's hurt. It's really bad_."

Mimi didn't cry. Mimi wouldn't cry.

When Collins returned, his face was set in a grim frown, and when Mark and Mimi looked at him expectantly, he only shook his head. Mimi vaguely heard Mark ask about Maureen and Joanne, but she didn't care to hear Collins' reply. She just needed Roger. She needed to be…

"Mimi, are you okay?"

That was a stupid question. Collins didn't ask stupid questions, especially ones he already knew the answers to. Mimi lifted her head to meet his eyes, but realized she didn't have to lift it far - Collins was kneeling in front of her, holding her small hands in his. "Mimi…?"

"Please…Collins…tell me…tell me he's going to be okay…" she managed to grind out, not choking on her words, not falling into hysterics like some sort of damsel in those fairy tale stories that Maureen liked to read. Collins said nothing, only continued to look into her eyes. Collins wouldn't lie to her - he couldn't promise things that he didn't know to be true…and Mimi felt like screaming. Please, at least tell her…at least tell her…

"Mimi…Roger was…" Mark suddenly said, not quite looking her in the eye, eyes downcast. But he didn't finish speaking. He had tripped when he said "was" and swallowed hard, looking away as a man approached the waiting area. His clothes labeled him a doctor - his scrubs labeled him a surgeon.

Collins rose to his feet, keeping a firm hand on Mimi's shoulder. "Doctor…?"

"Is any of his family present?"

Mimi wanted to yell at him - yes, wasn't it obvious? They were all family.

Collins shook his head. "We left a message for his family. I'm sure they'll be on their way as soon as possible. But…how was the surgery…? Is he…?"

The doctor's face fell into a mask, perfectly solemn, eyes dark. "We did all we could…"

Mimi's head jerked up, and her eyes widened to stare sightlessly ahead.

"…but he had already lost too much blood by the time he arrived…"

No, no, NO. 

"…he never regained consciousness…"

A small whimper escaped her lips.

"I'm sorry."

Sorry. He's sorry. Oh, god…oh, god no…_no please not this please don't let this be real_…

She felt Collins squeeze her shoulder, and murmur something quietly to the doctor…but it was Mark…it was Mark that spurred her attention…his entire body shuddered and then…she heard it…the choked sob…out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him bury his face in his hands…and he was shaking…his grief muffled by his hands…

And faintly, very faintly, "Oh my god…_Roger_…"

Mimi can't breathe as it hit her hard…no…no matter how she denied it…no, this can't be…he can't be…

He was gone.

Roger was dead.

oOo

It was the end of October, and it was raining.

Mimi was shaking. But she knew it couldn't be from the cold. No, the weather wasn't doing anything to her. And Collins had his arm around her, supporting her on one side, and Maureen was on her other side, resting her dark head on Mimi's shoulder while her other hand grasped Joanne's. Mark stood in front of them, trying to murmur something, but failing, his words lost as his voice tightened up in anguish. Benny was there too, eyes downcast, and every so often he would shake his head, as if losing an argument in his own mind…

Another funeral.

Mimi had barely said anything in the past week. Maureen had taken it upon herself to become a temporary roommate to make sure the younger girl was taking care of herself, and had often ended up becoming the shoulder to sob on. Mimi had done a lot of crying in the past week - it seemed futile not to cry now, because he really was gone. He wasn't coming back, not like she had done nearly two years ago.

Angel wasn't going to give them another miracle.

And it wasn't fair. Mimi had come back to Roger to hear his song - why hadn't he come back so she could have at least told him good-bye? She remembered the last thing she had said to him - they had been laughing over something, probably something Mark had said. Or was it Maureen? She couldn't remember. But she remembered him laughing. The husky, quiet laugh that always make his green eyes darken in humor…

"_I'll see you later_."

She had seen him six days later in a coffin.

The graveyard was quiet - Mark had ceased attempting to say any type of eulogy - and some of the mourners were beginning to wander off. Roger's family (he had spoken of them a lot, Mimi recalled numbly, sometimes in fond annoyance, sometimes in anger) had introduced themselves earlier that week, but Mimi couldn't bring herself to care. It didn't matter who they were, who they had been to Roger…he was gone now. It didn't matter.

She clutched the rose in her hand so tightly that the thorns bit into her skin. She was crying again - _oh, god, please no not Roger…_ - but she managed to lay the single flower on top of the black coffin. She saw her face reflected against the polished box - tear-stained cheeks and eyes that were too dark and too big yet had inspired Roger to write his song - and began to sob louder. She couldn't do this…she never had the chance to say good-bye…

Collins held her close as she buried her face in his coat.

It was still raining.

oOo

It was early November, and Mimi hadn't left her apartment in nearly two weeks.

Maureen still stayed with her. Surprisingly, the usually exuberant young woman had toned down her usual energy, quietly playing mother hen to the silent girl who often just stared silently out the window on most days. She knew that Maureen was telling the others about her reclusive state. She didn't care. It didn't matter. Why should it matter to her, now that the one person that had tied her to his place was gone?

She had tried to go through the photo albums, but she couldn't make it past the first few pages - it had been Easter and Mimi and Roger, much to his chagrin, had been wearing bunny ears - without feeling such an extreme pain in her heart that it made it hard to breathe. She was glad that the pictures were covered by that plastic covering…her tears would have ruined them otherwise.

Collins had come over a few times, to quietly whisper to her that Roger wouldn't have wanted this. And Mimi knows he was right because Collins was always right, but she just couldn't quite bring herself to keep living when Roger wasn't. When Roger's life was taken away from him, not by the stupid virus, but by some idiot with a gun…some stupid bastard who never even considered that the person he shot was cared for, loved by, needed by so many others…

They never found him.

Mark had told her that - he had come to visit her a week ago. He was pale and looked haunted - after all, how many more memories of Roger did Mark share than she did? He had known him at least five years before she did, had helped him that painful year after April, had encouraged him to get out of house that same night they met. S

he remembered stoically asking about Mark's camera. Mark hadn't replied. He just told her that he missed Roger, and there, his voice had caught, and he had quickly shaken his head. Maureen had come into the room at that point and quickly whisked him into the kitchen.

Mimi stared outside. The snow hadn't begun to fall yet. Was it three years ago? Two years and eleven months ago, she had met Roger. Flirtatiously asking if he would light her candle, she had been greeted with a bemused smile in a shadowed face. God, he had had so many demons, just like her. But together, somehow, they had managed to survive it…

…only for it to be ripped away.

Mimi looked over at the book of photos, raising her hand to the cross at her throat.

With a muffled scream, she tore the offending object from around her neck and threw it to the ground. It skittered across the wooden floor, landing twisted in a dark, dusty corner of her room.

oOo

It was the middle of November when the snow began to fall.

Mimi had finally been able to go outside. Collins, Maureen, and Joanne had taken her to the piers. She had come there with Roger once, back in April, when Roger had told her that maybe they'd go to Coney Island one day. Mimi had been so opposed to the idea back then…but what she wouldn't give to be in his arms, to hear his voice one more time.

She knew it wasn't normal, what she was going through. Even Mark had seemed to recover from the shock and sorrow of losing his best friend and roommate. There were times when it would creep up on him though - Mimi could see it in his eyes. But it wasn't the same for her - talking about Roger, no, she couldn't do that.

I can't…I can't possibly…

She hadn't gone back to work yet. The idea of coming home to an empty house with no messages left on her answering machine from Roger scared her. The terror and the emptiness was eating at her. What was she going to do? Roger wouldn't have wanted her to live like this. Not this mere shell of existence that wrapped around memories - because that's all Roger was now, a memory that would probably be forgotten over the years…

She wanted the world to stop when Roger died. She still wanted the world to stop, to reverse itself. Maybe if she had called, maybe if she hadn't gone into work that day, maybe if she hadn't been a girlfriend who needed gifts…maybe Roger would still be alive…

Mimi separated from the group, huddling closer in her coat. It was cold - the faint traces of winter were becoming stronger in the winds that lapped the waves against the pier. The sky was grayish-blue, the sun only a round halo of light high above. Tourists jostled her as she made her way to the edge of one of the piers. The railing was too high for young children to crawl over, but if Mimi leaned over just far enough, she could see the black waves lapping against the steel posts far below…

She didn't believe in heaven.

The wind blew strong gusts off the ocean, sending her dusty brown curls flailing around her face. If she peered close enough, maybe she could see her face in the water, maybe she could see the eyes that had inspired Roger to write a song she'd never hear again…

Someone grabbed her arm.

Mimi didn't even realize how far she had leaned over - her sight was blurred by the tears that constantly marred her vision nowadays - until she tumbled backwards into the stranger's arms. Mimi took in a shaky breath as strong arms wrapped around her, quietly berating her on leaning so far over and the winds might have knocked her over and was she crying? Mimi didn't notice the drone of her words - when would she ever stop crying?

"Are you alright?"

The words pierced her senses, and slowly realizing she was sobbing into the stranger's jacket, she whipped away, nearly colliding with a passing couple, who frowned at her and continued on their way. "I'm sorry," Mimi murmured, her own voice sounding foreign on her lips. Her voice with thick from disuse - she had loved to sing with Roger, to mimic his rock-and-roll tunes that soared through the loft, but she couldn't bring herself to do that anymore. "I didn't mean…" She didn't lift her eyes, scanning for a way out. Silly girl, all wrapped up in the past, in Roger, and losing herself…how would she explain that?

"Are you okay?" The question was different this time, asking with far more gentleness than before, with less urgency. Mimi swayed - he had always sounded like that during that troublesome first year when they were constantly plagued by problems…

She lifted her dark eyes.

And met sincere green ones that peered down at her from an unfair advantage.

To be honest, he didn't look _that _identical to him. Roger's hair had been a dusky-blond shade, and he always seem to have that five o'clock shadow that Mimi had loved to brush her hand against when they kissed. The stranger's hair was a few shades lighter, venturing into the honey-blond, and he was clean-shaven, and had more color in his cheeks than Roger had ever had. But other than those few differences…oh…god…

"…Roger…?"

The stranger's lips quirked into a smile that Mimi would have sworn she had seen before, but seeing him…this couldn't be real…she had been at the funeral.

"My name is Chris."

No, not Roger.

"They call me Mimi…" Her throat was suddenly dry and she wanted to break away from this stranger who felt like no stranger.

Chris (not Roger) was steadily leading her away from the edge of the pier, away from the black waves and towards the crowds, and more importantly towards a bench. "Are you here alone?" Mimi didn't reply - she didn't trust her voice. But it wasn't like she needed to, since a familiar voice (more familiar because she knew the owner of the voice wasn't dead) called her name over the excited murmur of the crowd.

Maureen's dark hair were clearly evident before Mimi even saw the other three, and she watched as the glossy waves bobbed perilously close to her face as she halted, staring at the tall figure that sat protectively next to Mimi. Her dark eyes met his green ones, and her mouth dropped into a round circle of disbelief.

Mimi didn't quite remember what happened after that. She had been too stunned to say much of anything, only shake her head in muted horror and grief when the man had introduced himself as Chris. Maureen had let out a squeal, she recalled, and then Collins and Joanne were there, and Mark…she remembered Mark's eyes…he looked so shocked…but then Mimi had turned away…the conversation became a murmur of fragmented sentences.

"…just like him…"

"…a damn coincidence…"

"…Mimi…"

"…who is he…"

"…less than a month ago…"

"…by the time she got to the hospital…"

"…hasn't really spoken…"

"…are you sure you're not…?"

It was only after the friends had confirmed that this was not Roger Davis that Mimi stopped listening altogether.

oOo

It was still late November, and the recent snow had already melted.

Mimi was watching a old-school horror flick with everyone when the popcorn ran out. Maureen rolled her eyes, muttering something about boys' appetites before heading back into the kitchen to make some more. Chris smirked slightly, "The dinner of champions."

They had all been shocked, that week when Chris had come across Mimi preparing to swan dive off the peer. Mimi had been slightly relived - she hadn't been hallucinating when the stranger-who-was-no-stranger had led her back to her group of friends.

Still, if it had been a dream at least it wouldn't hurt so much every time she saw him.

Mimi supposed that it was Chris's frighteningly similar appearance to Roger that allowed him easy, if at first wary, access to their small group of East Village Bohemians. His story was plausible - visiting his family from out of town before heading back home. He had paused thoughtfully when he said "home" though, and Mark had caught it, but Chris only quietly laughed it off, quietly reciting a cliché before turning the conversation back to weekend plans.

Mimi stole a glance at Chris. He was nice enough - handsome, because Roger had been, quiet yet still cheerful, with rare smiles that seemed to be gifted only for most special of occasions.

That night was Thanksgiving. Their first Thanksgiving without Roger - or at least, without the real Roger. Maureen had invited his doppleganger, much to Mimi's annoyance. Maureen had taken any emotion other than the blank sadness that had gripped her friend as a good emotion, and only repeated that Chris seemed a nice enough fellow…

"Do you believe in ghosts?" Mimi asked as a commercial came on. She was sitting away from the rest of the group, propped in the balcony seat near the grimy windows and looking down at the graffitied streets of Avenue B.

Chris's lips quirked into a smile. "Do you?" Mimi had shown him a picture of Roger once in the past two weeks since she had met him. Chris had taken one look at it - it was one of the Easter pictures - and smiled. He had the same smile now. "Are you thinking about Roger again?"

Mimi looked out the window. "I will always think about Roger."

"He probably always thought about you."

Mimi said nothing.

"You want to know if I believe in ghosts?" Chris asked, sitting at the balcony. He looked across at her. "Mimi, why does it matter? You all invited me into this close-knit family because I look like your dead boyfriend. I'm not sure whether to be amused or annoyed. I believe that you can't let go of him, and right now, all you're thinking of are ghosts."

Mimi's head snapped up, and she opened her mouth to retaliate, but Chris beat her to the punch. "You have to be okay, or else your life is a memory just like his."

The nerve!

Mimi didn't speak with Chris the rest of the night.

She never noticed Mark suspiciously watching them all during the commercial break.

oOo

It was early December when Chris asked her out on a date.

Mark had been obviously upset. The filmmaker had the unprecedented ability to pout about anything, but there had been anger flashing in his eyes when Mimi had told him and Collins about it. Collins didn't think it a smart move on Chris's part - after all, he only known them for three weeks, and it had been less than two months since Roger - oh, _Roger _- had died.

So Mimi turned him down. Chris didn't seem that surprised.

"Ghosts, again?"

Mimi had said nothing. She didn't feel like arguing with him. She just…sometimes, she just didn't care anymore. She had thought that maybe she was getting over Roger's death, thought maybe she would be able to get on with her life. But when she had visited Mark, on Maureen's suggestion a week back, her eyes had fallen on his guitar. Untouched since that day he had left the house and never came. The same guitar which he hadn't played in a year (the same day they met…"_would you light my candle_?"), which he had sold to buy a car (to get away from her), which had gotten back after selling the car (to get back to her), which he had played to her to bring her back to him.

She had never said good-bye.

And he was gone.

She had stared at the guitar for a good minute before Mark had quietly called her name. Mimi had turned to stare blankly at him…

Roger…please…

She hadn't visited the loft since.

Maureen came by, often with Joanne, to spark some life back into the shell of a girl. But Mimi didn't want any of it. She wanted Roger. She wanted him so bad. She still dreamt about him, and the thought of waking up…and knowing…_knowing _that it was a dream was enough to send her into wailing sobs, the body-wracking kind that refused to be stopped by anything…oh, god, she wanted Roger, she wanted him to be here…_oh, god, no_…

Chris didn't make it any better. He was too similar to Roger, and every time she saw him reminded her of the one person she no longer had.

Chris should have just let her jump.

Someone knocked on her door. Mimi didn't bother to call for the person to enter. She didn't even remember the last time she had locked it - she didn't care.

"Mimi…?"

The familiar stranger again, with the voice that haunted her dreams. And the smell of strong coffee wafted over the cold, still air of the loft. Mimi lifted her head, curls bouncing against her forehead as she peered across the room and into those green eyes that she both hated and loved - Roger's eyes had always been green, sometimes tinted in blue, sometimes flecked with gold, but always always green…

"I bought you some coffee," Chris said, holding out one of the two cups in his hands. "It's getting cold."

It was hazelnut. Mimi loved hazelnut. But she turned to look back at the slushy streets of Avenue B, refusing to accept the proffered cup. She heard Chris sigh (a breathy sigh, from deep in his throat, not unlike Roger) and then felt him sit next to her on the window seat, watching the rest of the gray and black city with her. And for the longest of moments, neither of them said anything. And how many times had she done the same thing with Roger, except she would always be resting against him as she played with his hands? She had loved his hands…the hands of a musician, the calluses of a guitarist…

"Mimi…I…"

"Why are you here?" Her voice sounded flat even to her.

"The others are worried about you."

"You make it sound like you've known us long enough to care." Bitter words, resentment. Why couldn't he be Roger, why couldn't this be their moment…it shouldn't have ended the way it did…

Chris didn't reply for a few seconds. Then, he leaned over, green gaze shifting from the December skies against a black silhouetted city to the thin, sad young woman curled up in an old leather jacket next to him. "Mimi, will you ever be happy?"

"Is this because I don't want to go on a date with you?"

"Please tell me you'll be happy."

Mimi's eyes flashed. "How can I be happy!? Roger is dead. Two months ago, some bastard shot him for no reason. Didn't take any of his money - he just happened to be there, and now he's gone! The person I loved more than life, the person who saved me - he is _dead_! And I never got to say good-bye! And it doesn't matter if I'll get over it because it won't bring him back." Her eyes narrowed. "I have to keep living the rest of whatever life I have left _without him_."

Chris glared back at her. "Forgive the cliché, Mimi, but what you're doing is not living."

"Who the hell are you to tell me…!?"

"Dammit, Mimi! He wouldn't have wanted this! "

"Get out," Mimi seethed. She didn't even look at him (_because looking at him reminded her of Roger and she just couldn't think about Roger in that way because then he'd be real and then it would be a dream_). "Get out of my loft. Get out of our lives. You were never wanted here! Stop trying to take his place!"

She didn't hear him leave.

oOo

It was the middle of December and New York had been hit with a blizzard.

Mimi had forgiven Chris, of course. She didn't know why (because he looks so much like him) and Mark, who was still suspicious of the familiar stranger, as Maureen had taken to calling him, had warily expressed his caution about letting his appearance fool Mimi. The Thanksgiving dinner had been a fluke - she shouldn't so easily trust him because he looked like Roger.

Mimi stared down at the blizzard, sipping the coffee that Chris had bought for her. It was hazelnut again. The cold in the loft was becoming nearly unbearable - Benny was attempting to make progress with the area, but it had been very slow. He called her sometimes, to ask how she was doing mainly. Benny had never met Chris, but Mimi guessed that Collins told him about the temporary Bohemian. Benny had asked if he played the guitar,

Truthfully, Mimi didn't know.

"Do you sing?" she asked suddenly, turning to look at Chris, who was sitting on the edge of her bed, flipping through the newspaper. Chris smiled quietly, not looking up at her.

"Am I auditioning for something?"

"What about guitar? Do you play guitar?"

"Mimi…don't."

He knew what she was doing. And she was annoyed that he had figured it out so soon. She opened her mouth to ask him another question, but he beat her to the punch. "Have you ever had a snowball fight on a roof?"

"Hmmm? What are you talking about?"

So it was twenty minutes later that Chris had dragged Mimi (and Collins and Mark, who had been surprised that Mimi had agreed to it) to the top of the roof. Mimi had been reluctant at first - how could she dare think of having fun, of laughing when Roger…?

Then she had been pelted with snowballs and her thoughts disappeared into the winter flurry. Only once though, when Chris had snuck up behind her and spun her in a dizzying circle of snow and heating vents and gray sky, did she laugh. She laughed because she remembered that sometimes when Roger wasn't being his typical brooding artistic self, he would always do things purposely to make her laugh.

"When you laugh, then I'm happy," he had said one time.

And then Mimi was laughing and crying at the same time, and she couldn't explain really which one felt better.

oOo

It was the middle of December, and Mimi hadn't even bothered to suggest that Mark shovel the sidewalk.

The filmmaker had made a comment about making a movie that would finally get him out of the East Village, but Mimi knew it was too late. Avenue B was home now - it didn't matter if they had never planned to live there for long.

She had gone back to work a few days before, shakily telling Barbara, the manager, as many details as she could. Barbara had listened with all the attention of a mother-figure, before hugging Mimi and offering any help that she could. Mimi had been thankful - Lily had said some words to some affect, but her eyes had fallen to the tabloid section of the newspaper soon after.

She wanted to dance again.

Mimi was returning from work one day, and passed Mark on the stairwell. He had his camera slung under one arm, and his backpack hung from one shoulder. Bundled up in his striped scarf and red jacket, he looked like some college student headed off to class. She said as much as Mark blushed. "No, I'm just out to film some more scenes - Maureen has a new protest."

"Maureen always has a new protest."

Mark laughed and waved good-bye, calling out behind him, "Oh, and Chris is in the loft." The suspicion had begun to fade from his voice - after all, Chris was the one that had gotten Mimi to open up since Roger's death. She was still not as exuberant as she had been…but Mark thought that she would be okay.

Mimi climbed the stairs, and stopped just outside of the loft.

Oh…it couldn't be…oh my god…he's not…

The strands of a waltz, plucked carefully on Roger's Fender guitar, floated from behind the door to loft.

She reached out to touch the handle of the door, but she couldn't bring herself to open it. She could only stare, and only listen as Musetta'a Waltz danced tantalizingly in the air, teasing her, and bringing up those memories…

…dancing in the candlelight - the power had been cut off again - Roger laughing at her attempts to speak Italian…

…angrily yelling at Roger, angry at him for being in one of his moods and angry at herself for allowing herself to care so much…

…hearing the strands before she first met him…as he contemplated his one song…

…quietly lying in bed as Roger quietly played the soft melody that always had the ability to make her feel safe and warm and loved and needed…

She bit back a sob as her face crumpled. Turning away from the door, she raced down the stairs towards her own loft, fumbling with the key before throwing herself into the room. Desperately, she scanned the room, and found what she was looking for - the photo album. Flinging it open, she paged through the photos with barely constrained sorrow. Every picture…every memory…every single second she was with him…

Roger…I miss you so much…

The door to the loft creaked open, and the familiar stranger stood in the doorway. "Mimi?"

"I…I miss him."

And then she was crying, but it was different from before, when she had first felt this. Before she had cried out of anger and loss and a sorrow that penetrated so deep, even a stab wound wouldn't have hurt as much. Now…she just cried because she knew what would never be, because he was gone. But…there was always that but…at least she knew. At least she knew now…Roger…

At some point, Chris came to sit next to her, and wrapped her in a hug, planting a kiss on her temple, and whispering words of assurance. "You'll be okay, Mimi. I know you will. You're strong. You'll be okay…"

And Mimi, for some reason she couldn't explain, knew he was right.

oOo

It was Christmas Eve, and a light snow had dusted the city and turned it into a wonderland.

Mimi was watching the snowflakes fall outside of the window. Christmas Eve was being held at the loft, because so many things happened there. She just wished that Roger and Angel could have been there with them. A wistful, bittersweet smile came onto her face.

Chris had disappeared for a few days, only to show up at the loft late in the celebrations. Joanne wasn't quite drunk yet, though Maureen seemed intent on getting her there before the night was over. Collins and Benny were discussing plans of affordable ways to maintain the heat in their apartment buildings that would last throughout the winter. Mark was muttering to himself as he went through his film over the previous year, as he always did - it had become a sort of Christmas tradition.

Mimi watched as the year spun by in a flurry of images. She remembered most of them - that time they had ventured into Times Square, or had celebrated Maureen's birthday with no candles since she refused to tell them her age. There was an obvious gap where the middle of October would have been - Mark had done little to no filming after Roger had died. Her eyes only watered briefly as Mark caught her eyes on one scene in particular - the last moment Roger had been on tape.

"_Tell the folks at home what you're doing now that you've written one great song_."

Roger raised an eyebrow at the camera. "_Hopefully write another one_."

"_Good luck with that. Will it take you another year_?"

"_Ask my muse. She lives on the floor beneath us_."

"_Very poetic_."

"_Thanks_."

Mimi smiled as he played a few strands of her song…their song. Her Roger had always been in such an artistic rut, but she always called him a genius. Roger had then called her a liar before kissing her, and thanked her anyway.

She wasn't quite sure when she drifted out - surely sometime after Joanne loudly announcing she had frogs - but she felt strong arms lift her up…and vaguely, being laid on a bed…and someone stroking her hair…and it felt so warm and familiar and nice…she leaned her head towards that hand that had the calluses of a guitarist, feeling faintly someone stroking her cheek…and words…she couldn't quite comprehend…faintly…drifting…

And she dreamt.

oOo

It was Christmas Day.

Mimi woke up, finding herself in Roger's old bed (_she knew this room_), and allowed a small smile to grace her features.

She opened her eyes, and saw Mark watching her from the doorway. "Good morning."

Mark said nothing for a long, long time. Then, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "Good morning, Mimi."

"How did the night go?"

Mark smiled. "As expected."

Mimi sat up, looking around the bedroom. "What time did they all leave?"

"Maureen hauled Joanne off about two, Benny left at one, and Collins left at a little after three." He scratched his head. "Chris left after he brought you in here. Alone." Mimi rolled her eyes, and was about to reply with a comment regarding Mark's conclusion when a memory rose unbidden to her mind…

…Chris…

…gently touching her cheek…

…brushing her curls from her face…

"_I know you'll be okay, Mimi…you're strong…you'll always be strong…I just had to make sure that you kept living…to the fullest…Angel wanted me to tell you not to give up…" _

"…I'll wait for you, I promise…"

…then, a soft kiss than gently whispered across her lips…

"I love you, Mimi."

Mark stared at the dancer for a few moments as a silent tears rose into her eyes. "Mimi?"

For a few agonizing seconds, Mimi said nothing. And then she looked up at Mark and her face split into a wide smile. "I'm fine, Mark. I'm going to be fine." Mark chuckled quietly, and pulled Mimi into a firm hug. "We're all going to be fine."

And in her mind's eyes, her lips tingled from the kiss from Chris, who was not Chris, and she began to laugh and sob, and she was sure Mark was doing the same thing to. But…it was worth it. Things may not be the same ever again - no they could never be, and soon they would change again - but at least she knew now.

She never had to say good-bye.

"_I'll see you later_."

oOo

Author's Note (7 Feb 08): Don't know where this came from, but it begged to be written. As in, I got struck with this idea and wrote out all eleven pages in one day. Now if only I were so good with my other fan fiction. 

This is stage-verse by the way, with hints of movie-verse thrown in.


End file.
